Unpredictable
by Read.Live.Vocaloid
Summary: "Why are you together if all you ever do is fight?""Because I wouldn't fight so much with someone and still keep going back if I didn't love him" Didn't someone once say love wasn't about birdies and rainbows but about fighting often and finding a reason to stay together? Arthur is demanding and capricious. Alfred is careless and a dreamer. They're both immature. Yaoi not explicit
1. Sweet Love

Inspired by the song Impredecible (Unpredictable) by Eiza González. I recommend to listen while you read. Here´s the link: (If you want the English lyrics tell me and I'll wipe up a quick translation):

www . youtube watch?v = bk0JM_E_uPY (Erase the spaces)

LA VERSIÓN EN ESPAÑOL "IMPREDECIBLE" ESTÁ EN MI PERFIL

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Arthur, busy as always, sighed heavily.

_What a day_, thought the diligent blond thought as he ran a hand through his hair. It felt like hay. _Dammit, when did I last wash it…?_

With a second sigh he shook his head. _Now's not the time to be distracted, Arthur._

The Brit proceeded to recapture his pencil—when had he first let it go anyway?—and reread what he'd written. This report had to be handed in by tomorrow, and even though the Englishman had started it three days ago, he'd yet to finish the tedious essay. Damn lack of inspiration. _It is because of the previously explained reasons that the actual European markets have fallen in such debts with the other, therefore in bankruptcy to-_

A screech erupted from his left and the table started to vibrate. It was his cellphone.

The Englishman wanted to scream. Who dared interrupt him in such an abhorrent matter? _Bloody hell, so close to finishing all damn ready and—_it was then that the Brit noticed the time. It was ten o'clock.

The blond gulped loudly, producing a sound that bounced in the walls of his throat and died in his mouth.

Only one person ever called him after nine thirty.

Arthur felt his face go pale. His hands started to sweat. His stomach felt as if it were falling into the fiery pits of Hell itself.

The phone started to go off louder.

_Shit!_

With a jump that almost provoked a sudden suicide to his precious tea mug—that had accompanied him through so many all-nighters he couldn't possibly hope to count them—the blond reached him phone and opened it.

"Hullo?" he asked. He noticed he was out of breath.

"Hi sweetheart, how was your day?" Arthur took a deep, deep breath and smiled placidly. _His_ guttural yet adorably childish voice caressed his very soul. He honestly never breathed as deep, as easily, as he did when he spoke to, or was with, Alfred.

Wait, what?

It was in that moment that Arthur fully registered the American's words.

"Goddammit, Alfred! How many times do I have to tell you _not_ to call me any of your bloody nicknames?!" the blond fervently yelled at the mobile device.

"Hey. Hey!" Meanwhile, Alfred sighed. Arthur was talking—more like yelling his head off—non-stop and he couldn't shut him up. "Artie! Hey! Artieeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" he whined, purposely extending the last vowel in a way he knew annoyed Arthur.

"_What?!"_ exclaimed the Englishman. _Bingo. _Alfred had to bite down to avoid a chuckle. He knew his Brit so well by now…

Alfred smiled.

"I love you" he said sweetly.

Arthur felt white-hot heat run up to his face. All his frustration, his stress, all his ills, really, disappeared. Just like that. _Poof. _Gone.

Alfred always did that to him. Only hearing his voice made him breathe with more ease. With an _I love you_ he could simply melt. And it was that tone… so sweet, so gentle—something quite rare for the hyperactive, hero-complex-possessing American—simply so… Arthur didn't even know how to describe it. It was as if the American caressed him softly—it made him feel hot and chills at the same time.

"And I love you."

* * *

Aw, they seem so sweet, so fluffy... well, that ain't gonna last long.

Thanks for reading! I hope you're liking it. I'll try and get chapter 2 up soon, but keep in mind that I'm also uploading the story in Spanish (Impredecible).

Any question, suggestions, correction, requests- anything, just say it!

I'd appreciate reviews. Have a great day/night!


	2. Flames

Hey everyone! Happy New Year's! I wish you all the very best for this new year and hope that you can learn and live and enjoy a lot. Ummm, let's see, this chap's dedicated to SweeneyOCD98 (check her out! Her stories rock!).

This story was inspired by Impredecible a song by Eiza Gonzalez, but I heard She Wolf (Falling To Pieces) by David Guetta and Clematis by Valshe whilst writing this.

Enjoy!

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Chapter II: Flames

'_Your voice caresses_ _me__ when you speak, when you say that you love me…'_

"_I love you."_

"_And I love you."_

'Then we argue non-stop.'

Alfred didn't know, didn't even remember anymore, how the hell they'd started arguing this time. _Here we go again…_

"No, Arthur, I didn't mean—"

But it was a miracle in itself that the Brit had let him speak for so long.

"Of course you did!" fervently interrupted the Englishman "When someone says something…!"

Was it only five minutes ago that they were telling the other _I love you_? It was surreal. Honestly, Alfred didn't understand. The blond whose hair seemed molten gold and copper sighed.

By then, Alfred already knew how to tune out the Brit's endless nagging and concentrate instead in the silent atmosphere inside his car—well, as silent as his piece-of-shit motor could ever be.

Well, it's not that the motor's _shit_, it's that it was so, _so_ old that it was a miracle for the poor thing to still be up an' at 'em. Well… _up an' at 'em_, yeah right… More like constantly fighting against the entire car, resulting in that whenever Alfred brought the vehicle to life it would salute him with a loud _clank, clanck, clanck-track-prack, clank…_

During the whole damn way. It was always in that exact order: _clanck, clanck, clack-track-prack, clanck._ My God, that damn sound was permanently engraved in his brain.

But Alfred wasn't ungrateful, no, on the contrary, for every reason he had to hate his prehistoric car, he had ten to thank it for.

Althought the—

"ALFRED!" Oh, no. He knew that tone. It meant the Brit had been trying to draw his attention for a while now. _Shit._

"Yes?" he softly said, his shoulders hunching over themselves, awaiting for the Brit's imminent explosion. "Oh, so now you don't even _listen_ to me?! So that's how it is?!—" the American wasn't listening. He couldn't. His mind had simply become disconnected. He felt his face slowly, but dangerously, heat up. He felt his pulse accelerate. Felt his jaw get tighter and tighter.

"Because you nev—!" _"What did you say?!"_ exploded the American. He usually held out Arthur's immature and crazy whims longer, but today he'd had a hard day, he was just getting out of a tough class and Arthur's words seemed to have flipped a switch.

Arthur sounded surprised—uncertain, even, when he softly answered. "Alfred?"

Alfred regretted it already, but he seemed unable to stop himself. "Never, Arthur, _never_ even _think_ about even _insinuating_ that I don't listen to you _all the damn time_. Dammit! I always listen to you! _Always!_ No matter what the _hell_ you fucking say! Shit!" Alfred yelled so loudly he couldn't even hear his car's ever-present wails—and that sure was something.

Arthur's uncertainty, on the other hand, had long ago vanished. Yes, uncertainty? Oh, no. What he felt was passionate, white-hot fury.

"That you _what_? Oh, no, no, no, no, no, don't you come to me with that load of crap!"

"Crap, huh?"

"Yes, _crap_. Like you and your damn whims!"

"_My_ whims? This coming from the whimsiest, most childish person I know!"

"_Me_ childish?! Says the little boy with the hero complex!"

And so it began. Like every night—or like most, at least. It was their endless roulette.

A word badly spoken, a stressful day for one or both… whatever, really, and the incessant arguing began.

The duo's personalities didn't help much, either. Where Athur was organized, thorough, and meticulous, Alfred was inattentive, usually zoned out—having only a couple of exceptions—and, honestly, didn't pay much attention to things' order. Arthur loved literature and the arts, Alfred the numbers and mechanics. The Brit liked to walk every now and then, but wasn't a fan of sports per se—the American couldn't live without his daily jog, his weekly football and his bi-monthly soccer match with friends on Thursdays.

Yes, they were different in practically every way.

"Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrggghhh!" Alfred yelled, already sick of the same thing over and over each night. "You know what? If you're going to be so childish, then it's not even worth my time to talk to you at all!"

Arthur, understanding what the American was referring to, opened his mouth in indignation. "You wouldn't _dare_." He whispered menacingly.

Alfred, in his rage-induced-craziness, smiled mockingly. "Watch me" he said, his voice cold.

"Alf—"

_Beep, beep, beep._

_That bastard!_ Thought the fuming Brit. He smacked the cellphone against the table. His poor, trusty tea mug, already used to its owner's emotional abuse, jumped because of the impact.

The Englishman grabbed his face, dug his fingernails in it, and screamed. He screamed into his pale palms until he felt his throat would come undone.

He was so, _so _frustrated… Alfred! The damn bastard! Aaaaaaaaarrrrggghhh!

When he noticed he had just screamed like Alfred did, he wanted to punch himself. Of _course_ he was going to imitate a habit off the American in precisely that moment. Of bloody _course_ he would.

The Brit, unable to think, did what any British gentleman would do in his shoes; he grabbed his trusty tea mug, put water to boil and reached for his tea box. That tea box had been a present from Alfred. It was absolutely ridiculous—filed with pictures of them both, of their friends and family… But it was sweet.

_Damn it!_ The Englishman cursed mentally, grabbing a handful of leaves at random and roughly shoving the box into its rightful place, _the bastard manages to bug me even when he isn't here!_

One hour, five biscuits and two tea cups later, Arthur was finally starting to breathe without having to count to ten. Or twenty. Or fifty. Or a hundred.

No longer did the Englishman see red, and he was finally able to push Alfred into the farthest part of his mind. _Now, to finish the bloody essay…_ The Brit took a look at the time. _Shit!_ Almost eleven thirty.

Arthur sighed heavily and took a deep breath. _Okay, you can do this. Come on, there's almost nothing left and you can probably even catch that muse from before…_

Yes, before Alfred and his… _Aaaaaarrrgghh._

The Brit shook his head. Fresh. He had to be fresh. Just breathe… and off to work.

… _It is, then, by the before-hand explained motives that the actual European markets have fallen in such debts with one another and, by dominoes' effect, in bankruptcy. If they wish to make their current situation and the quality of their citizens' lives better, they must…_

Arthur checked the watch out of the corner of his eye. Three past twelve. _Alfred, I hate you so much! I never want to see you again!_

… _With these marketing strategies, and using the actual novelty of entrepreneurship… _

One twenty six. _The bastard hangs up on you and doesn't even bother on sending a bloody text message—he could have crashed that shit of a car of his and I wouldn't even know! Well, you know what? I wouldn't give a damn. You heard, Alfred? Go and crash your damn, prehistoric car! I couldn't care less—you see, I would if I could, but I just couldn't care _less.

… _With all the intelligence, creativity and, above all, enthusiasm of this new generation, we must take advantage of them—use them for the great of the planet! They are our future, and it is for that reason that…_

Two thirty six am. Nothing. _Shit, what if he really crashed the car? That piece of garbage is dangerous! I told him so repeatedly! What if he's hurt? What if he's dead?! Would it be my fault for not insisting? No, no… Please, Alfred, don't be dead…_

…_All the material used for the present essay was extracted from the following books, approved both by the National Library and the Committee of Education and Training of Young Adults…_

Done. The essay was reread, printed, stapled and carefully put inside a neat folder, which the Brit situated in the table just next to the door—this way, it'd be impossible to forget.

It was three on the dot.

Still no Alfred.

_Damn it, why am I missing him already…?_ Truth was, the Englishman felt worried, anxious, and… alone. He missed the bastard.

But he couldn't be the first to try and communicate with Alfred. It was always he who hung up the one who was expected to re-communicate first. It was an unspoken rule between the pair.

_Alfred just hurry and text me, dammit…_

Arthur slipped off his clothes—he felt that they were strangling him—and put on his pajama pants. He was just about to reach his usual, worn-out white shirt, but a vivid red suddenly caught his eye. _Bloody hell?_ Frowning, he reached for it.

Ah. The blonde felt a warm smile form on his face and a memory come pounding back to him.

A long time ago, Alfred had given him this sweater.

"_I don't get it." Said the Brit as he pulled out an old, worn-out and ridiculously red sweater from a gift box he had deemed good enough. He had thought the gift it would contain would be decent as well—until now. "What's so special about this sweater?"_

"_Dude, that sweater is the reason I passed high school! Exams, essays, stress-y days, depressions—it also made us win every single game it went to!"_

"_So…?" asked the Brit, still confused._

_Alfred rolled his eyes. Arthur was being so slow! "This is the only real good luck amulet I've had in my life. Every time I use it, I feel better."_

_Arthur, being as superstitious as he was, eyed the sweater with new appreciation. "Aha… so…?"_

_Alfred rolled his eyes again. _My God, he's so _slow_ today…_ "So…" the American said as he took the sweater, pressed it to his face in a quick good-bye, and gave it back to the confused Brit. "I want you to have it." He finished, smiling with a tenderness he rarely possessed, but that Arthur seemed to intensify._

_Arthur blinked, finally understanding Alfred. "Oh, no, Alfred, I couldn't accept something so important to you—."_

"_But you will." Interrupted the blue-eyed blond._

"_Alfred, you obviously love it—."_

"_But I love you more."_

_The Englishman blinked. The American's smile sweetened. "And that's why I want to make sure you're always A-okay—always the best for my little Brit-sey!" Arthur was going to interrupt to complain about the nickname, but Alfred beat him to it up continued. "And, besides, that way when you need me and I can't be here—or if you simply miss me, well… I'll always be here."_

"_My God, you're so corny."_

"_Hey! No fair! I made an effort! And I really meant it, too… from the bottom of my heart, Artie."_

_The Brit smiled. "I love you, Alfred."_

_The American smiled. "And I love you, Artie."_

The sweater was simple, really. It was a scandalous tone of red and had written on its lower part, in big, beige—maybe they used to be white?—letters a simple "BULLDOGS". Arthur supposed there may have once been a logo of some sorts on the upper part of the sweater. Now, it was an unrecognizable tangle of fluff.

Yes, the sweater may be horrible or unpleasant of appearance, but the Englishman simply couldn't care less. He, without even bothering on tossing on a shirt, slid his way into the too-big-for-him sweater, and closed his eyes.

He inhaled deeply. He smiled.

Yes. _That_ was why he loved the sweater. Because of its smell. _His_ smell. The indescribable smell of his American; the smell of ashes, a wee bit of car oil and something sweet that identified the bulky blond.

The other thing he liked about the sweater, thought the Brit as he laid atop his cold bed, was that it was so warm and thick that if he closed his eyes, shrunk himself to a tight ball amidst his blankets, and inhaled deeply, it was as if Alfred was really there, holding him.

The blonde sighed and attempted to clear his mind in order to get some sleep.

_Beep, beep, beep._

_Damned be the man who invented this bloody thing…_

But no, it wasn't the alarm clock. Barely fifteen minutes had passed. The blonde reached for his cellphone. He had a message. Suddenly, he was fully awake. _Alfred? Is he okay? Is he hurt Is he still mad?_ The Brit flipped his cellphone open.

From: Alfred F. Jones

Message: … Hey

The Brit felt relieved, frustrated, mad, in love, and happy all at the same time.

_Reply._

To: Alfred F. Jones

Message:

…

_Do you have any idea how worried I was? _No.

_How was your trip home? Did the car try to explode again? _No.

_It was about time! Why hadn't you texted me before?!_ … No.

Not a minute later, the American's cellphone buzzed in his hand. Apparently, praying had worked. _Thanks, God._

From: Artie! :D

Message: Hello.

The American smiled. At first, he'd taken Artie's seriousness and lack of emoticons via text as a bad sign. Now, he knew the Brit well enough to know that he was too boring for those things. And to figure out what his texts meant.

Short: he was uncertain of Alfred's mood. Precise: he wanted to see what the American was planning. Lack of insults: he had calmed down already.

Alfred hoped Arthur missed him as much as he did, but he didn't want to take chances. _One step at a time, Jones, one step at a time…_ So he wrote.

From: Alfred F. Jones

Message: U in the mood 4 sum sberries & tea?

The Brit smiled.

From: Artie! :D

Message: Always.

The American smiled again and started the motor again, glancing at the small plastic green bag in the copilot's seat as he did.

Not ten minutes later, three louds knocks were heard at the door of a certain English man.

* * *

Hope you liked it. If you want to correct something, mention a typo, tell me what you like or don't like of the story, simply talk to me or if you want to tell me something or someone you think I should add to the story, you're invited to review. I read and answer every review.

Have a great year, and thanks for stopping by. I hope to see you next chapter!


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